Ironhorse

4

The Robber’s accent was thick, Scottish, maybe Irish, Welsh maybe. I lifted my hat to see a large man wearing a billowing white shirt and a flat-pressed felt hat with a flip-front brim. Behind him stood a very large man with a long red beard. They both carried late-model Hopkins & Allen revolvers and had bandanas covering their faces. Standing next to me was a tall man who’d come through the rear door. He was wearing a duster and carrying a Schofield revolver in each hand.

By now the passengers were screaming, which prompted the Scot, possibly Irish or Welsh, robber with the flip-front brim to bark, “Everybody, hands in the air! Reach! Hands in the air and shut your mouths! Anybody who doesn’t do as we say will be killed! Hands where I can see ’em!”

Everybody did as he demanded. For the moment, I figured there was no reason not to comply with his demands and have a bullet sent in my direction. I raised my hands up where they could be seen.

I was trying to place the foreigner. There was something very familiar about him. Maybe we had been stationed together. Maybe...

“Everyone keep your hands where I can see them,” he shouted. “Everyone!”

I’d been stationed near here, in Fort Smith. I was familiar with this rugged country and most of the outlaws that were part of it. I was certain this foreigner was from my diary of disregards.

“The only time I see your hands drop is when you put your money, watches, and rings in these hats!”

When the robber and the big bearded man took off their hats to be used for collection plates, I recognized him and the bearded man both. I knew if Virgil did not somehow do as he was accustomed to, show up and change these thieves’ course of direction, or if I didn’t make a move soon, I’d be shot when they recognized me.

The man with the Schofield revolvers standing next to me did not say a word or remove his hat. He was the watchman, and I did not oblige him by looking up and exposing my face.

I wondered how he got past Virgil. Nothing gets past Virgil, ever. He must have come from the top of the train, or maybe he was hiding in the freight car, and Virgil walked past him. Maybe he got the jump on Virgil, and Virgil was thrown from the train, or was dead.

“Put all your valuables in these hats!” Vince yelled.

That was his name, Vince. Vince was Randall Bragg’s right-hand man in Appaloosa. He was as bad as they came. Given that I was the one who killed Bragg on the porch of the Boston House Hotel in Appaloosa, I was certain when he got to me, he’d be none too happy to see my face. Vince and Redbeard moved down the aisle, collecting passengers’ belongings.

“Don’t anybody do anythin’ stupid!” Vince shouted. “When we get to the top of this rise, we’ll be gone and you’ll be safe!”

I assessed my options as Vince and Redbeard walked the aisle, prodding each passenger to give up their valuables. My eight-gauge leaned against the window frame but was certainly too cumbersome for swift movement. I could not reach for my Colt or dingus because the man with the Schofields was standing just to my right, towering above me. He was no more than a step behind me, and he’d be sure to see my actions.

Vince and Redbeard were halfway down the aisle, getting closer and closer to me as they gathered money and jewelry from the passengers. Redbeard was collecting faster and was ahead of Vince by a step when he looked directly at me. He stood tall, and I knew he recognized me. He turned his head slightly, looking back to Vince.

“It’s Everett Hitch,” Redbeard said.

When Redbeard turned back to me, I could tell by the wrinkling around his eyes that he had an evil smile under his bandana. But the wrinkles smoothed out quickly when he heard Virgil speak up: “And Virgil Cole!”